


Pint Sized Wordsoup: Love and War

by Tafferling



Category: A Shielding Thing, Dying Light, Resident Evil
Genre: /r/FanFiction Prompts, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Redfieldium, UST, come for the prompts, prompt fills, stay for the gifs in the comments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9553814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tafferling/pseuds/Tafferling
Summary: Chris Redfieldcan't wrap his head around beingalive,Kyle Cranethinks everyone is a bully and spoilsport, and Sadja continues to fail athow to human..All that and then some as the prompts continue!Love and Waris the theme this month, and I will try to dedicate as many as I can to Resident Evil, though it'll likely include a mix of Dying Light and a Shielding thing as well.





	1. #Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February 1st: Joy - Let's start off with a dramatic moment: Your characters are celebrating a [victorious battle!](http://i.imgur.com/43cVhpk.gif)
> 
> Fandom: **Resident Evil** | Characters: **Chris Redfield, Piers Nivans**

**#Alive** Below his feet, the black depths of the ocean hold on tight, and Chris feels his stomach lurch.  They want him back. Want  _them_ back. The emergency pod jerks. Tumbles up and up and up and up, the bullhole all bubbles and green and black water rushing by.

When it hits the surface, they’re both torn off their feet.

Pies falls with a strangled, strained laugh, and Chris knocks his head against a stubborn wall. Sees stars. Sees hues of red, gold and soft pinks where a dawn floods the pod after he yanks the hatch release down. Fresh air. Salt. Seaweed. Sweat and gun oil and dirt when Piers slings an arm around his shoulder trying to keep himself upright as he staggers to the hatch.

The grip tightens as the waves toss their ride, send them bobbing heedlessly across the an endless sheet of roiling mirrors.

“We fucking made it,” Piers says, and Chris can’t find words. Just nods. Smiles. Still can’t believe it, but that’ll come with time.

And when the ropes and pulleys descend from the evac chopper, they’re sitting with their eyes turned to it. Exhausted. Spent. Done.

_Alive._


	2. #Spoilsport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus! 
> 
> February 1st: Joy - Let's start off with a dramatic moment: Your characters are celebrating a [victorious battle!](http://i.imgur.com/43cVhpk.gif)
> 
> Fandom: **Dying Light, Resident Evil** | Characters: **Kyle Crane, Chris Redfield, Sadja Shielding**

**# Spoilsport** Sadja is quick. He gives her that. _Too_ quick almost. And she absolutely never plays fair. Kyle is okay with that, with the elbows and the clicking teeth. Not the unfortunately placed knee in his lap thought. That one’s just not right, especially not when it digs deeper because she’s trying to climb over his head to get to the TV remote he’s holding out of reach.  

But two can play that game.

A roll of his shoulder under her, and she’s upside down. Her  _GNAH_ gets muffled when her face hits the couch, and tapers off when he stuffs a pillow over it. “ _Not fair—_ ” he thinks he hears her grunt/moan/state, but he’s already sitting on her back. _Good luck lifting those 180-something lbs of Crane, you little shit._

She tries. Fails. Tries again, and he smushes the pillow down a bit harder.

“Tap out,” is what he’s got to advise her with.  

“ _Vaaguu_.”

He snorts, grins, and shift his ass on her spine in a happy little victory dance. _Wiggle-Wiggle-Wiggle_ , while the remote gets a quick, triumphant flick through the air.

Except it doesn’t come back down. Kyle’s eyes cut to Redfield walking past, his prize now in the fucking bastard’s hand, who’s already channel surfing on his way down on the couch next to the squirming, wailing bundle.

 _God damn spoilsport,_ Kyle thinks and pouts. So much for Thursday evening Archer re-runs..


	3. #Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piers Nivans finds a set of green eyes very distracting. And very nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February 2nd: **Blush** \- Sparkling eyes peek through the door. Character blushes at the attention. And then...?  
>  Fandom: **Resident Evil** Characters: **Piers Nivans** and guest starring **Chris Redfield**

**#Nice** He’d been in the army for seven years and then some. The B.S.A.A for almost three. Before that? Dorms. Communal showers are a part of the lot. They are old news to Piers Nivans. So god damn old news that—

He yanks a towel from a rack. It snaps through the air thick with steam, _bites_ around his hip when he pulls it tight, and it's damp and— oh god why isn't the new guy looking away?

_What’s his name again? What the hell, what’s his name? What’s wrong with you?_

There’s an uncomfortable ( _Nice)_ sting of heat at his throat. Creeps up and down, pools above his collarbone, and Piers marches away. Feels eyes track him. Subtly green eyes. Curious. _Nice_ eyes in a _nice_ face on _nice_ shoulders with all manners of _nice_ the rest of the way down and then some.

By the door ( _Almost_ ) and he hears: “You alright?”

Piers jerks his chin to the voice, finds Chris looking at him. Lips a little tilted, and a slight crinkle around his eyes. Cautiously amused. Very _telling_ , because Captain Redfield smiles about as often as a blue cow passing by overhead and slapping him with a trout.

“Yeah,” Piers wheezes. Squeezes the towel. “Totally fine.”

“Uh-huh—” comes the reply, but he’s already out the door and in the cool, dry hallway. Missing his clothes, because those are the other way, but _ugh._


	4. #Impeccable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're dressed up for a party. Sadja thinks its okay to dress down again. For a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus! This was my original February 2nd ( **Blush** ) prompt attempt. 
> 
> It got a little out of hand. Rating for this chapter is lightly elevated into M territory. 
> 
> Fandom: **Resident Evil** Characters: **Chris Redfield** and **Sadja Shielding**

**#Impeccable**

* * *

 

 **R** edfield doesn’t look up when she nudges the door open to step into the box for a room. The air is thick and heavy. Wet. Warm. Water still drips in the shower. _PIT. PAT. PAT. pit. pit._

Odd, sharp scents tickle her nose, and Sadja follows them to where he stands in front of a fogged up mirror. The poor thing does its best with what it’s got and reflects him as a wide shouldered, smudged shadow.

And still Redfield doesn’t bother looking up. Keeps buttoning up his shirt in absolute silence. One at a time. Slow and methodical. A neat, straight line that’ll connect perfectly once done.

She stops by his side, leans across the sink, and flicks a hand across the glass.

The motion leaves a clear swath in its wake, gets her palm all wet, and gives their reflections some room.

Two unlike people swim in the mirror. Her in a simple, thin dress. Green. Because he likes green. Him in the process of getting into a suit, with a black jacket waiting outside to go over the white shirt and match the trousers.

His head is bowed. Hair all orderly. A trimmed shadow clings to his cheeks, a bit darker where it bunches across his chin, and there are hints of grey in both. She thinks it fits him.

Still being ignored, and slightly annoyed by the fact, Sadja slips in closer, turns around and hops onto the sink in front of him. The thing is cold and wet and hard, and she feels a line of water soak through her dress.

_Oh well. It’ll dry._

He looks up. Quirks a brow at her. Then goes back to the impeccable, white shirt with its impeccable buttons. Soon, the thing will be tucked into the impeccable ironed trousers with the impeccable silver belt buckle, and he’ll put on an impeccably tie and it’ll all line up straight as an arrow.

“Hm.” She swipes a bottle from the sink behind her. Turns it in her hands, her eyes dancing between the nonsensical words on it, to the man who’s playing his favorite game. A game she rather likes winning.

 _CLICK_ and the cap on the bottle opens. It smells like him. Or him like it, the rainy days of him married to spicy things and things that stir at her insides.

“Aqua” _,_ she reads from the back. “Something-something-sulfate.” Her brow pinches. “Coca-what?” She looks up. Catches his eyes fall away from her and back to his buttons. He’s been working the same one since she’s sat down.

“A classically masculine fragrance with an addictive edge. Crisp notes of green fruits and fresh sage make up this refreshing scent. Hm. Addictive?”

Sadja clicks her tongue before she leans forward, grasps at his shirt with her free hand and tows herself close. Her nose sits by his neck. It brushes warm skin. Scents what he’s put on him and what’s hiding underneath, a stubborn hint of rainy days.

Redfield huffs. His hand wraps around hers, a firm and decisive _You’re ruining the shirt_ sort of grip, and he pries her loose.

“You’re addictive, that’s true,” she hums against his throat, a brush of her lips tasting soap and a bit of him. Her head tilts a little and she catches the rough scrape of stubble against her cheekbone, feels a puff of air tickle against her ear. A quick exhale, followed by a drag of his lungs that stutters on the way in, like he’s trying hard to keep it level.

When she settles back, he’s drifted closer. And with her heels gently hooked around his legs, she watches him _not look._ Still playing the game. He reaches for the tie he’s folded carefully behind her somewhere. Sets it around him. Loops it with a practised, quick ease. Starts tying it. _Not looking._

But there’s a hint of heat on his neck, drummed up by the shudder of his pulse.

“Are you blushing, Redfield?”

His fingers pause knotting the tie. Eyes up, pausing briefly to meet hers, before they fall away to cast an inquisitive net. They catch on her face. On her shoulders with the twin strings keeping the dress up. Dive down her length, and land on the mystery of fervent green fabric stretched between them where she’s shifted her hip forward and the dress has hiked up along her legs.

Up the eyes go again, because he’s stubborn. Well mannered. And fancies himself under control.

“Because I think you’re blushing,” she adds, lets her knuckles trace down the side of the buttons. Lower and lower until her palm presses against him at the front of the _impeccable_ trousers.

He hardens under the touch, and his breath hitches. Slows.

“Definitely blushing,” she tells him as he rolls into her hand. Just once, and there’s an annoyed grunt aimed at her when she traces her fingers upwards again, all the way to his chin to hook behind the first button. It pops free.

A brow rocks up and his lips curl faintly. “Hey— I just got dressed.”

There’s a set of warm hands sliding down her sides already. One of them rides a little lower. Slips around her rump.

“Mh. But see, you look mighty nice in that suit.” The third button comes undone. Links of silver wink back at her from where the chain of his tag runs by. It catches in coarse hair, and she fleetingly wonders if that pinches.

The second brow joins the first, all the way up in his forehead and telling her she’s being silly. Real silly.

“And naturally,” she adds. “That means I have _got_ to get you out of it.”

“—and that can’t wait until after the party?”

One more button to go, and the shirt falls open, the lopsided tie dangling between them.

“Nh.”

He leans forward. Into her. Tracks a hand to her nape in response to her curt response. It squeezes. Flirts with the idea of pain.

“What’s that?”

“Nosir.”

She earns herself a kiss. Slow, but with purpose and direction. He never does a thing without either. It folds her back, and a slight wring of fingers around her wrist makes her abandon the bottle. _PAP_ and it falls to the floor— _THWHUMP_ and he knocks into the sink.

His hair is still damp as she tracks her fingers through it. His skin hot to the touch, though she can’t be certain if it's the remnants of a shower— or the tangle of their bodies twisting against the hard edge under her.

The kiss wanders. His hand wanders too. Hitches her knee up. Chases the dress up until it bunches over her hipbone. Drags back down, heat slicing in its wake and the press of his fingers into her skin. She gets to lose her underwear and he gets to huff up a brief complaint, because the thing needs her legs away from him, and he can’t have that.

The impeccable belt buckle clicks. No longer serving any purpose but to be in the way, and he won’t have that either. _Can’t._

He’s impatient now. Hungry. _Very_ hungry. All greed and want and _mine-mine-mine_ with every sweep of his hands, the snatch at her hair and lips tracing a eager line down her throat.

An almost satisfied sigh rumbles up his chest when he finds her altogether wanting in return, and runs itself ashore on the first, careful rock of his hips.

He’s a distraction from the sharp line of porcelain digging into her, a rap of bone on bone with every snap of his hip. Heat stands guard against the cold at her back, draws a burning slice between her legs and blooms with his forehead pressed to hers.

Keeping her close. Not letting go, because letting go means losing. And she knows he’s done losing, and when they forget the world around them it’s easy to forget there’s nothing that’d tear her away from him.

 **T** hey end in a mess, their limbs locked together and shaky. There’s clutter on the floor and in the sink and she figures her dress is ruined. But that’s fine. Redfield has got a slow smile on him, and he murmurs his approval of her still tucked against his chest. Hums it into her hair, and she loves the sound of it almost as much as she loves him.


	5. #Wistful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 5th: **Wistful** \- What could have been? Oh, if only [they](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheOneThatGotAway) were here now!

**#Wistful**  | **P** iers sits there with a leaning sort of stiffness, his knees snapped together and elbows propped wide on the table. An empty beer bottle stands in solemn vigil in front of him. The label half peeled off, tatters hanging from its neck.

Chris considers staying clear. Briefly. But friends are friends are friends, especially _them,_ and he’s not going to leave him hanging tonight. A rap of two fresh bottles against wood announces his presence. Piers lifts his head, eyes cutting to him, though they’re a bit sluggish as they tear themselves away from whatever he’d projected between the framed photographs lining the wall.

Bottles still pinched between his fingers, Chris hooks a foot against a chair leg, pulls it out. Sits. Leans forward, an offer of cold relief brought forward, and Piers shifts his posture.

Piers blinks, slow and out there somewhere, before he plasters a smile to his face that tells a different story than the grateful nod as he grabs for the beer.

The kid had always been shit at hiding things.

Chris doesn’t ask _What’s up._ Doesn’t have to. His beer takes a pointed, gentle swing towards Piers, and there’s a _CLINK_ of glass on glass that spells _To those that got away._

Everyone’s got them.

Especially those that walk with death.


	6. #Round hole, square peg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Valiant Remedy in a nutshell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February 6th: **Bickering** \- What says love more than a heaping helping of [belligerent sexual tension](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BelligerentSexualTension)?
> 
> Fandom: **Resident Evil** | Characters: **Chris Redfield, Sadja Shielding**

**#Round hole, square peg**

* * *

 

~~ They fit. ~~ They don’t.

They’re  _ Yessir, Nossir,  _ and  _ Sit the fuck down  _ with a whole lot of  _ Where we going, Redfield?  _

He growls:  _ “No. _ ” when she gets the phone up and slings an arm around his shoulders, fingers digging into his shirt to keep him in place.  _ “Smile—”  _ and  _ sssSNAP  _ goes the camera. Nips at his heart and makes his fingers twitch, like he’d love to wrap them around her neck.

They’re a hush at the breakfast table and a  _ HOOOONK  _ while he’s letting a decent day roll over him, legs crossed, ass on the hood of the car and eyes turned to tall mountains on the horizon. He almost spills his beer. Turns to look at her, chokes down the  _ Bitch.  _ Flicks his finger at her in silence and that’s that. 

They’re a side by side. A next to each other with too little room between them. 

She’s the loud music, the rhythmic beat of drums and guitars. Flat on her back on the couch with her legs propped up. Feet shuffling to the music. Hip wiggling. And he’s the fucking hangover stalking into the room and picking up the small radio.

It drowns in the sink.

Better it than her.

They’re stretches of silence while the car purrs on. Snatches of a smile on her when he puts his foot down and it roars instead. 

They’re  _ another day done _ , and she’s at the door before him, scans the hall idly. More bland carpets under their feet and bland wallpaper between rows of numbered doors. He flicks the key towards her. Whistles as it arches through the air. A twist of her hip. A grab. She’s got it. Props the door open for him, and by the time he’s done throwing their bags on the bed, she’s standing in front of a stout TV with two bottles of beer from the mini bar. She lifts them to him and he gets to popping them open.

They’re long, shitty nights.

A two AM of him waking with the bed falling away, and the night hunting for him. Snarling. Growling. Wearing him thin. He snaps a hand down on the beside table. Finds his cigarettes. Fumbles with them as he gets to his feet and paces to the window. His hands are shaking. His breathing shallow. And he’s forgot the lighter. 

_ CLICK  _ it goes next to him, a bead of light blooming in the dark, carried by a set of sad eyes.

They might just fit. 


	7. #Thrill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February 7th: Thrill [Escape scene](http://i.imgur.com/nt8cCTg.gif)!
> 
> Fandom: **Resident Evil** Characters: **Chris Redfield**

There’s glass in his way. A window pane. Easily as tall as him. Double as wide. Chris doesn’t know how thick it is, if it’s double paned, or even tempered— and he sees himself smacking into it once he gets there. Just a lot of _THONK_ of Redfield meeting glass.

Which isn’t ideal, because his reflection headed his way comes with a glare of red at his back.

Heat.

It roars after him. Tears at the air. Licks for his heels.

Chris runs harder. Draws his sidearm with a jerky motion between hard raps of his boots on the floor. _PWAP PWAP PWAP_ the bullets punch into the glass. They draw a triangle, flat side up, pointy side down.

And through he fucking goes.

It shatters around him, breaks apart with his shoulder knocking into it. He chokes on crisp, cold air. Tumbles. Falls. The world turns and twists— black skies, black ground, black skies, _red-red-red-red,_ fire roiling from the window with an almost disappointed roar his way that it didn’t get to burn him.

Then he hits the ground and _that_ hurts like a bitch.

But hey. Just another day at work, right?

Right.


	8. #Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 8th: Need - When your character needs them, [ they are there.](http://i.imgur.com/eKo9Hrs.gif)

You’re the warmth under my skin. A touch of life wrapped around my heart. You’re the night not spent tightly folded against myself, the whisper of: _I’m here. You’ll be okay._

When I can barely breathe, you’re the air in my lungs. And when all I have left is madness, you’re the touch of reason that centers me.

On the day all fight left me, you stepped into my path. Tripped me as I was halfway to looking for something final. Eternal. Caught me on the way down, and stayed with me at the bottom of the grave I’d dug.

You stayed, and you didn’t relent.

You stayed.

And so did I.


	9. #KO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 17th: KO - A character gets knocked out by the enemy and wakes to one of their comrades looking at them like [this](http://i.imgur.com/7uXXHDo.jpg).

There's ringing in his ears. A high pitched, shrill sound.  _ Rrrrriiiing  _ it goes, or maybe it whistles, he doesn't know and he doesn't really give a damn. Chris sucks in air. And that goes down thick and scratchy, not like air at all. He coughs and he chokes, sees a blur of muted colours when his eyes open. 

A weight slaps on his chest. The ringing gets a little sidetracked, says:  _ "Captain!"  _

He blinks. Gapes. 

"You alright, Captain? Chris— are you?"

There's a Piers hanging over him. 

Wide eyed. Lips running fast as he keeps repeati— 

"Oomph—" Chris hacks up air as he gets smacked in the chest again, the  _ "I'm fine,"  _ he's been going for lost somewhere between there and the "Fuck," that makes it past his lips. He wants to roll over. Figure out what way is up and what way is down, get out from under that dedicated friend hell bent on saving his life by knocking the breath out of him. 


End file.
